Happy Accidents
by PurpleMoon3
Summary: Though he didn't intend to do so, Aziraphale manages to save the world. Again.
1. Chapter 1

**Happy Accidents**

**A Good Omens, Supernatural Crossover.**

**Disclaimer: Good Omens is the beautiful work of Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Supernatural is the beloved brainchild of Eric Kirpke.**

**A/N- I wrote this because I couldn't get the idea out of my head, and Crowley and 'Zira seem to do so much better at things when they aren't actively trying to do them. Also, the idea of Aziraphale going downstairs because he's looking for Crowley strikes me as hilarious.  
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**Summary: Though he didn't intend to do so, Aziraphale manages to save the world. Again.**

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><p>Aziraphale was lost. Hopelessly. Normally angels couldn't get lost, for in Heaven angels were everywhere at all times needing only to bring their consciousness to bear on the appropriate moment, and on Earth in a single body they need only spread their wings and will themselves where they wanted to be. Aziraphale, however, wasn't in Heaven or on Earth, and his very nature was at odds with his current surroundings causing his skin to tingle (1), and his ears to ring with the muffed screaming hitting his ears (2).<p>

He stuck to the shadows, Grace carefully packed away and unobtrusive, trying to navigate what passed for highways in Hell, and sighed.

Perhaps Raphael was right, and all the time dirt side had messed with his mind. Just look at Gabriel who, Aziraphale had found out after the apocalypse-that-wasn't, ran off and joined the Asgard (3). What kind of angel knowingly went into Hell just because they were looking for a demon that had missed his dinner date? And Aziraphale wasn't even planning to attack the demon in question.

He was actually rather worried. Crowley had missed five of their last eight get togethers, and two of those that he _had_ managed to make he had been... frazzeled. Crowley didn't do frazzeled, and though he clearly wanted to talk about it he was hesitant.

Enough was enough, the angel decided. Aziraphale was determined to find his Opponent (4), drag him back upstairs, and into protective custody if need be. It was a very simple, very good plan.

Aziraphale hadn't quite taken into account, however, just how vast Hell was. "Oh dear..." The angel murmured as a dark cloud of what may have once been human souls whipped through where he had been standing, screaming and spitting hate.

Aziraphale carefully tucked a stray golden lock out of his face, frowned, and continued deeper on into the Pit. He contemplated pulling aside a different demon, or maybe one of those black clouds, and asking as to Crowley's whereabouts, before discarding the idea.

He tried to ignore the worried, human, voice of reason in the back of his mind that thought it was more from fear of being discovered alone on Enemy territory, and oh-boy what fun the Fallen would have if they got their claws into you...

Aziraphale took a left turn as the sound of screaming laughter, his eye twitching erratically for a moment, echoed out from a tunnel made of bone, blood, and chains of hatred.

People were suspended on racks, the likes of which were far more sophisticated than those of the Inquisition, and the angel had to fight the urge to take them down. They were souls flayed, pinched, pulled, and lay bare for all to see. Darkness of their own making swallowed them, and if he did take them off, eventually they would find their way back on. Eventually.

Aziraphale looked away, moving silently through the throngs of beings, hunching further in on himself, and wondering how Crowley ever managed to retain any goodness when he came from this.

The blonde angel quickly ducked into a spare room when a lower level Fallen came rushing up from below, all horns and anger and curses, grumbling about an alarm at the Gate.

"Huh. You're different." A weary, dry voice spoke, and Aziraphale turned around, startled.

It was a man. A bruised and hurt man, body broken and intestines hanging out. All his fingers were broken and twisted, his arms flayed, and Aziraphale winced as the only thing that wasn't a ruined wreck was his face.

A pained smile worked its way onto chapped and bleeding lips. "Interesting approach, didn't think you assholes had anything worth looking at..." He swallowed, and though he hid it well, when all you were was a soul emotions came across like great big neon signs. "You can tell Alastair I'm not going to say yes to a pair of baby-blues and some nice legs. But good try."

Aziraphale blinked, mind trying to process what he was seeing. "P-pardon me?" He shook his head, carefully ignoring the torture implements that had been lovingly arranged on a table of bone and iron, and walked over to the man. Man. Not demon. Not tainted spirit. Not damned (5). "I am not with Alastair, young man, and why are you here?"

The man said nothing, eyes narrowing in suspicion, as the angel reached into the folds of his jacket and removed a two-and-a-half foot sword, using it to hack at the chains holding the young man in place, while expending just a tiny bit of Grace to speed along the healing process.

"What are you doing?" The man hissed. "I said no!"

"I heard you the first time, dear, but it's obvious to anyone with half a mind you don't belong here. There must have been a mix-up with customs... this sort of thing happened all the time during the eleventh century..."

The man begins to plea half-heartedly, and Aziraphale recognizes the faintest spark of hope in his eyes. "I made a deal. I don't, I don't welch on my deals."

Aziraphale has managed to get one of his feet and both hands free, the man his gathering up his intestines and shoving them back where they should be while watching Aziraphale for any signs of hostility, before resting hands on his hips. "And what, exactly, was this deal?"

The look on the man's face is incredulous, as though Aziraphale must have been dropped on his head as a baby or something. "That if, if the demons brought my brother back to life, after a year I'd go to hell. And here I am."

"Well then." Aziraphale says with triumph while hacking at the last of the chain, and as he comes free the man darts over to the table of knives and screws, picking them up and hiding them about his person. "I don't see the problem. You've gone to hell. You've fulfilled your end. Nothing says you have to stay here. Now, dear, we really must go. I've used quite a bit of Grace tending to your essence and no doubt the Dukes will have noticed."

The man blinks, unsure, and clearly bewildered, but _wanting_ to believe. "What are you?"

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><p>A man shaped creature enters the bookshop through the backdoor. Yellow, snake-slitted eyes keep watch on the street before he relaxes and removes his coat.<p>

"Angel, you won't believe what... what is he doing here?" Crowley sputters as he spots the human snoring on what should have been an empty couch (6). A small coffee table was covered in empty pie plates and a cooling pot of tea sat at the far end.

Aziraphale came walking in from the storefront, phone in one hand and a truly massive phone book in the other. Upon seeing his counterpart, the angel's face lit up like a megawatt bulb. "Oh, Crowley dear! It's so good of you to drop by, I've had a horrible time with this thing, you wouldn't happen to know how to make an international call, would you? I need to call this," Blue eyes glanced at a hastily scribbled bit of paper. "Singer Salvage. South Dakota."

Crowley can't stop the hysterical laugh that bursts from his mouth. "Oh Go-, Sa-, Sweet Manchester, Angel. You've no idea, do you?" The demon is fairly certain of this statement. While Hell had been supremely pissed at his actions during the last attempt at The End, they hadn't cut off communication, and in fact had been running Crowley ragged, no doubt trying to distract him. Heaven, on the other hand, had decided to ignore the troublesome angel utterly, much as they pretended Gabriel was still upstairs.

They didn't want the grunts getting any ideas about questioning their orders, after all.

Aziraphale just continues smiling, gesturing with a telephone that is more of a brick than a miracle of modern science, and Crowley waves it away while taking out his own, sleeker, state-of-the-art cell phone.

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><p>1. The fires of hell emit more dangerous radiation than a hundred suns, and it is only the fact that the denizens of the underworld are incorporeal that keeps them from mutating horribly, though that itself is debatable.<p>

2. Most angels wouldn't be in Hell anyway, as the gates are guarded by all kinds of devil's spawn (a), but after a night of drinking (b) Aziraphale happened to know where the back door entryways are.

2a. And no one really wanted to be there.

2b. A game of truth or dare was involved, and the angel could be surprisingly vicious on the dares.

3. Though admittedly their honey-mead went even better with mana than wine, but Aziraphale wouldn't tell his superiors that.

4. Because Enemy was just too... antagonistic... when applied to his drinking partner.

5. Except in metaphysical geographic sense.

6. Crowley bought it five years ago and called it a business expense- attempting to tempt the angel into sloth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Happy Accidents**

**A Supernatural, Good Omens Crossover**

**A/N- I'm honestly surprised my muse decided to continue this. I think she couldn't let go of badass Aziraphale.**

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. **

**Part Two: Waking Up On The Wrong Side Of The Bed.**

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><p>Bobby was sleeping off too many bottles to count when his phone rang. His mouth was filled with the taste of mothballs and ash, his skull felt like it was trying to crush his brain, and his neck had developed a twinge from passing out over his desk and an open book that had been old when Elizabeth, the first, took the throne.<p>

It took him about two minutes to realize it was his _actual_ phone that was ringing rather than one of the many switchboards that he ran for Hunters. A quick blurry glance at the clock, and the still dark window, told him it was half past three in the morning.

Who the hell called at three in the morning? (1)

"Better not be a telemarketers..." (2)

He eyed the phone suspiciously before picking it up. "Who's this?" Mentally, he slogged through oceans of coping mechanism for an exorcism.

"Good morning! Is this Robert Singer?" A too-cheerful and accented voice called through the speaker.

"It is three in the God-Damn morning. What do you think?" God save him from idiots that didn't understand time-zones (3). "Who are you and what do you want?"

There was something that sounded like a struggle with near hysterical laughter as background noise. It only served to increased the ache in Bobby's head. "Listen, spit it out or I'm hanging up."

"You see, Singer-" A new voice spoke before being cut off by the sound of fumbling followed by the original voice hissing, "-you demon!"

Bobby's eyes widened. He knew it. He fucking _knew_ it! Telemarketers were agents of Hell, and now they were possessing phones instead of airplanes! "Dues, et Pater Domini nostri Jesu Christi-"

The aged Hunter pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it. Bastards had hung up on him.

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><p>"Crowley." Aziraphale said in a voice thick with disappointment. The angel had his arms crossed, with his head tilted at the slightest angle, and Crowley was suddenly reminded off all the times before the Arrangement (4). "Was that really necessary?"<p>

"You heard him. I don't fancy being dis-corporealized by phone (5), just to get blasted back downstairs. Especially not now." The demon replied quickly, slipping his phone into a coat pocket that through the powers of assumption acted very much like a certain Poppin's infamous carpet bag.

The angel shook his head and relaxed, summoning a bottle of wine. "It seems awfully strange for a human to start reciting exorcisms-"

"No thanks to you!" (6)

"It's not like it would have killed you."

"That's not the point." Crowley took off his sunglasses and rubbed at his eyes. When he opened them again, the blonde angel was, if they were anyone else, uncomfortably close. Blue eyes peered up at him in concern.

Funny. The new body seemed a bit shorter then he remembered... but still wearing that ghastly tartan.

"Then tell me what the point is, dear. I've worried about you, and do you know I've had to smite about a dozen of Lucifer's little hybrids that have been sniffing around? What. Is. Going. On." There it was. The stuff that stood against the combined forces of Heaven and Hell. Determination. _Care. _Aziraphale could give lessons to other angels on what it meant to be one.

Crowley sighed. "What is it ever about, angel? The Apocalypse." He cracked a smile, and snagged a cookie from the tin. "Though, to be fair, seems you've stopped it. Congratulations!"

"Oh." Aziraphale stared straight ahead, before mechanically walking over to the counter and guzzling the entire bottle of wine. "Is that where you've been the past year?"

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><p>Two decades. Twenty years. One thousand, forty weeks (7). Seven thousand, three hundred days.<p>

Give or take.

For a twenty years Dean had been strung up on the rack, twisted into every uncomfortable position imaginable, had so many things stuck in so many places he couldn't remember them all, and he almost couldn't believe it was over. Maybe he had been dreaming when the creature dodged into his personal Hell Hole. Throughout all the pain he could still dream, but that had been a whole other torture in itself, so maybe...

No. Dean fought his way back to consciousness, mind flickering back to the memory of a soft, apologetic voice (8) as wings -great, big, fluffy wings- spread out.

Dean took a deep breath, savoring the dusty, non-brimstone smell of the air, and smiled into the couch. Even with all their mind tricks, Hell hadn't ever been able to get the smell right. They could put him in a room with a demon wearing Sam's body, in a construct straight off of route sixty-six, but the underlying smell always gave the game away.

The Hunter rolled over, eyes closed, letting the sense of painless freedom soak in. The scent of old paper, books and ink, tea and coffee filled the room reminding him of Bobby's. Dean frowned. He'd been downstairs for twenty years.

Was Bobby even still alive?

Was Sam?

Despite the warmth of the room, and the blanket around his shoulders, Dean felt a sudden onset of cold.

Twenty years...

"Do I look like I have a death wish, angel?" An irritated, somewhat familiar voice hissed. "He's a Hunter. You know what hunters do to things like me? They throw Holy Water at us. _Holy Water._"

That caught Dean's attention. The eldest Winchester snagged a leftover bit of pie-crust and edged quietly to the thin door the separated the back room from the rest of the shop. Dean had a sudden desire for a knife (9), or something (10), because while he didn't know who, or more probably what, was speaking, and he didn't trust it.

There was a sigh. "I can't take him. Those men in black coats and sunglasses have been hanging around again (11). I don't even want to think of what they would do if I left the shop. Besides, the Colonies seem to be chalk full of you side. You could... mingle... or something equally diabolical." Dean wondered at the sudden urge of protectiveness (12) that welled up in his chest. "Crowley. Dear."

"You know, there's plenty of your side flapping around, too." The now named Crowley grumbled petulantly.

"_Apparently_." The angel sighed, and Dean knows that sigh. It's the sigh that comes from noticing that you've just stepped in a wad of fresh gum after a hard day and no matter how hard you try the damned pink stuff keeps getting everywhere. "I had wondered..."

"Look, we called the number. Just, I don't know, give him a plane ticket and send him on. Release him into the wild!" At the suggestion of a plane there is no doubt in the freshly resurrected Hunter's mind that the Crowley is evil. He must be a demon. Possibly a Daemon.

"He's not a pet, Crowley."

"No, he's not! He's a perfectly capable killing machine that you just pulled out of the Pit!"

"Exactly! The Pit! You've been there, you can't just take someone out of Hell and expect them to be fine!" There's something that sounds like a strangled sob, and something that sounds like glass breaking, and Dean has _had_ it.

Twenty years. Twenty goddamned years of pain, of torture, of sucking it up and taking it because no matter how much he wanted the pain to stop he wasn't wasn't wasn't going to give in to Allie, that smarmy bastard, and when, by some Miracle, he gets out he finds that there is some_ thing_ messing with _his_ angel...

"Hello, Crowley." He emphasizes the name, just a tad. His knuckles are cracking as he flexes his hands with pent up violence. "Nice to meet you."

There's a broken wineglass on the ground, soaking into the floorboards, and two men looking to him in surprise. One of them is all kinds of light, in an outfit that looks dated and somewhat ridiculous tartan. He doesn't look the same as he did before, less glory and more human, but Dean can feel it in his bones see the reflections in the way his golden curls wisp around his head and his eyes shine, that the blonde is the angel. Aziraphale. The other is dark and everything James Bond would be if he decided to go rogue.

Dean is struck by the random thought that Crowley probably has a really, really nice car tricked out with all sorts of options that shouldn't exist (13.)

"I wonder." Dean continues as he forcibly drags his mind back on track while brandishing a heavy teapot he found among the pie crust. "Does Holy Tea work as well as Holy Water?"

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><p>1. Aside from Hunters, but they generally used the switchboard phones.<p>

2. Bobby had paid a psychic good money to install wards against them. (a)

2a. There was an underground movement that believed telemarketers to be crossroads demons that had adapted to technology much like the crocotta Sam and Dean had hunted two years ago.

3. It wasn't that Aziraphale was an idiot, or that he didn't understand time zones, he just wasn't used to dealing with people who actually needed to sleep.

4. That particular pose used to be given after Aziraphale had discovered some new wile to be thwarted - painfully.

5. Bad memories to do with ansaphones, metaphysical races, and Holy Water.

6. Aziraphale had been expected to fight the War on Earth, but when Lucifer's little abortions started sneaking their way dirt side the logistics made that impossible. Whispering in an influential priest's ear had been infinitely easier than trying to track them all down by himself.

7. Estimated time, leap-years played merry heaven on Hell's calendars.

8. Normally, Aziraphale would have sent lost souls straight Upstairs, but he didn't want to deal with the paperwork that an unauthorized excursion Downstairs would have caused.

9. Particularly one with a serrated edge and covered in runes.

10. A Magic Colt loaded with Magic Bullets would be preferable.

11. Do to unforeseen changes in the local financial sector, Aziraphale's bookshop tended to be targeted by both legal and illegal businesses. This included local gangs out for bribes, drug lords looking for a new headquarters, major business tycoons wanting to buy real estate, and various government agencies that happened to notice how undesirable elements tended to disappear after entering the small privately owned bookshop who's owner had a record so clean it might as well not even exist.

12. Some might have said possessiveness.

13. Hell tends to mess with the mind, often resulting in psychosis, black outs, severe cases of ADD, and in one instance the urge to dress up like a little girl and have endless birthday parties.


	3. Chapter 3

**Happy Accidents**

**A Supernatural/Good Omens Crossover**

**A/N- Fine. I give up, this is now a WIP. I have no idea when or how it will end, or even the rate of update. My muse is being stubborn.**

**Part Three: Territorial Disputes**

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><p>Crowley felt an instinctive shiver of trepidation as he eyed the brandished teapot. It was one of Aziraphale's favorites, antique and heavy and easily turned into a bludgeoning instrument, and the demon could practically taste the santity of tea. Crowley hissed while throwing as much fire-and-brimstone authority as he could into his voice (1). "Put. The pot. Down."<p>

It wouldn't even be death-by-teacup, which he could come back from, but death-by-_tea_.

Crowley had always hated The Wizard of Oz. (2)

Winchester's lips quirked hungrily. "I don't think so."

Crowley fought down a shiver. _Balls_. The man had them. Which wasn't necessarily good for his continued health (3).

"Dean, darling." Aziraphale cut in, smoothly stepping between demon and human in an attempt to defuse the situation. Waves of calm were wafting off the angel in buckets, and the hunter relaxed. Marginally. Soft, manicured fingers touched down on bare skin, rubbing soothing circles on the hunter's arm. "It is alright."

Crowley's eyes turned to slits as the whole world narrowed down to just the three of them. Hell's schemes could sod off. Heaven and its manipulations could wait their bloody turn. This, here and now, needed to be dealt with.

Dean still held the pot gripped tight, held by the handle in a such a way that with a twist and flick of the wrist the contents would scatter across the room. Hazel eyes flicked from Crowley to Aziraphale, and back. The hunter's voice came out rough; too raw from screaming (4) to be anything else. "Demon." As though that explained everything. (5)

"Why, yes." Crowley snarked, his own eyes keeping careful watch on the pot of flavored death. A moment of hesitation was all he needed. With a thought he could snap his fingers and miracle, if not the pot, the righteous man himself away... but then Hell might find him again. "I Tarzan. You Jane. Anything else you'd like to point out, Winchester?"

"_Dears._" The angel dragged out, grace flaring ever slightly. The forgotten phonebook's pages fluttered from where it had been abandoned on a shelf. The blonde took a step closer to the human, all but _pressing_ against him, radiating good will and just plain Aziraphale-ness. "Dean." Big blue angel eyes wide and beseeching.

Crowley felt momentarily conflicted with equal parts anger and sympathy: he had been on the receiving end of that look (6). The human didn't have a prayer.

Gently, Aziraphale took Dean by the non teapot holding hand, and led him to the back room away from the windows. (7)

Crowley followed along behind, fingers flexing.

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><p>The angel was using some kind of mind-whammy. Dean knew, as a hunter, that he should be trying to throw it off and gank the demon... but was it worth the effort? He was feeling rather mellow about things at the moment.<p>

Also, Aziraphale's bitch face surpassed Sammy's at its worst. (8)

At the very least, he had managed to maneuver the too-trusting-for-his-own-good, rather like a certain little brother, angel to the seat furthest away from the wannabe mafia king. A huff that sounded like half amusement and half exasperation came from the direction of the angel, and the demon's expression went cold. Almost reptilian.

The hunter felt a thrill of dark satisfaction.

"So." Carefully, threateningly, Dean poured himself a cup of tea. The stuff wasn't half bad with milk and a couple dozen spoonfuls of sugar. "Are you trying to tell me you've changed? Cause I got to tell you, I heard it before." (9)

"Of course not!" The demon hissed with surprising derision. "I'm a demon. I'm evil. It's what I do. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying."

"That's not to say that's he doesn't mean well. He's just Crowley." Aziraphale quickly explained with a pleasant expression (10) as the demon in question made a noise of strangled disgust.

Dean gave the blonde the same kind of look he gave to people that believed in aliens. "And that means?"

"It means I don't get my rocks off eating babies or other such pastimes." Crowley shrugged with a grin. "Very little meat on babies. Nothing but lard."

"_Crowley_!" Aziraphale glared, barely catching the teacup in the air with a twist of grace, which was interesting because Dean hadn't known the angel had telekinesis in its bag of tricks (11) The demon himself had scrambled backward, nostrils flaring, sunglasses slipping down his nose from the sudden movement. The angel -Without taking up space between!- had crossed the room and was hovering almost protectively by the demon while at the same time scolding. "_Hush_. Dean, dear, I know you mean well, but I can take care of myself, and Crowley _really_ isn't going to hurt me. Are you, dear?"

Crowley snorted (12). The hunter frowned as Crowley righted himself, a motion so smooth it could have been boneless, and nonchalantly adjusted his jacket. "Your eyes," Dean breathed, noticing their color for the first time. "They're... gold."

"Yessss?"

Gold eyes. Not the sick, jaundice yellow of Azazel's, or the milky dead white of Lilith's. Not even the ink-black pits of the more common demons. They were the deep burnished gold of the sun, or rich wheat, and slitted like a cat's... or a snake's. Actually, Dean thought before Crowley tapped his sunglasses back in place with a finger, they were kinda pretty.

"Dean? Dear?"

Dean shook himself. "Yeah, yeah. Okay." The demon would live, for now. If it was a demon. He wasn't entirely positive of that anymore, still, there was _something_ going on. Something that this _Crowley_ knew. He would have never made it his first year in the Hunting business without instincts, and right now they were screaming at him.

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><p>Lilith was not a happy camper. The blood decorating her hands and frock attested to this. "What do you mean he's gone? He can't be gone!" She yelled at the top her her stolen six-year-old voice while stomping her tiny foot through the remains of a woodland creature. "Souls don't just get up and leave Hell!"<p>

A random demon coughed (13) before falling to the dirt in pain as Lilith put the psychic whammy on the disrespectful minion. Blood vibrated in a small wooden bowl, communicating the annoyance, fury, and demands of the being on the other end of the inter-dimensional phone call.

"Of course, Alastair baby." Lilith replied. "It shouldn't be too difficult. We'll have you up here in two shakes of the Dragon's tail."

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><p>1. Which wasn't much, admittedly. Torture and terror were sooo last millennia.<p>

2. As a demon, he wasn't supposed to feel sympathy with anyone, and he usually didn't, but damn if his heart didn't go out to Hamilton.

3. Or Crowley's for that matter. Ask anyone (a) when it came to survival, the Serpent played dirty. And for keeps.

3a. There's a particular Duke who, if he wasn't consigned to bits of flotsam on the ocean of Oblivion, could swear to the fact.

4. To be fair, a good deal of the screaming were creative curses. Dean had been particularly proud of the one about the demon, the rabbit, and just what his torturer could do with a slug and a salted kidney.

5. For Winchesters, it usually did.

6. And ended up trying to beat off the Morningstar with a tire iron.

7. This included the men in the dark coats and glasses watching the windows.

8. It wasn't so much a bitch face, as an expression that caused Dean's inner-child want to go and repent in a corner.

9. The demon who had claimed it promised to help keep him out of hell, and considering how _that _went he was less than inclined to believe it.

10. Which didn't really explain anything, but generally made everyone believe in the benefit of the doubt.

11. Remembering Max, Dean decided he would have to be extra sneaky if he planned to go behind his angel's back.

12. So far as he knew, Aziraphale was the only angel to accidentally discorporealize himself. Twice. Three times if you counted the barrel incident of 93 AD.

13. It sounded suspiciously like 'John Winchester'.


End file.
